Allister's Cupboard
by alternativeneem
Summary: Twenty-four-year-old Harry, Auror-in-training, remembers the spider who kept him company in the cupboard all those years ago. Canon-compliant, but grimly so. Warning: physical abuse. Abused!Harry, H/G, R/Hr.
1. Chapter 1: Parents for Sale

"_It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time… It gave him an odd, empty feeling to remember those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost."_

_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

It was not easy being Harry Potter, even now that he was twenty-four years old.

The number looked odd to him, as if it belonged to someone else: someone much older than he was, someone he should have respected as a role model instead of staring at in the mirror. In the layer of himself that rested deepest in his soul, it seemed that his life had paused at age seventeen. Most of the time, he didn't feel a day older. For one thing, he was in training to become an Auror, which meant that he remained a schoolboy of sorts. He still loaded his pockets with cauldron cakes and Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, complained about needing to fill twelve inches of parchment when he had only written five, and craved more free time to spend with Ron and Hermione.

But then there were other times that he remembered things - not simply with his head, but also with his heart. In these moments he was filled with a quiet sadness for the little boy he had once known so well.

He had a still photograph of his childhood cupboard on Privet Drive, which he had taken several months after the Battle of Hogwarts. He held it in his hand sometimes and gazed at it for what could be either minutes or hours, but felt like eternity.

It was winter. Underneath the threadbare spaceship blanket, Harry had rolled himself into the fabric so tightly that only his neck was free to move. He couldn't really see the stars and planets on the print anymore – it had all faded to a homogenous gray – but he could still imagine rocketing past them as he tried to drift off to sleep.

On the wall next to him was the circuit breaker for the entire house, which whirred incessantly and clicked at random times. It gave him the cover of background noise that he needed to talk to himself without the Dursleys listening.

There were shelves behind him, too, and Harry regarded their contents as landmarks for his own personal possessions. His khaki trousers lay underneath the dishwasher soap, his gray sweater on top of the screwdriver, his navy shirt held down by the broken TV remote, his underwear and socks tucked behind the box of cleaning rags. He kept his schoolbooks and pencils under his mattress, flat against the two storage crates. He also had a couple of three-legged model horses, which he had rescued from Dudley's rubbish bin and propped up on the highest shelf. Sometimes he would ask his friend, Alastair, to ride the horses into battle; she wouldn't mind that the horses were injured, of course, because she had plenty of legs to spare.

That night, the inside of the closet was pitch dark (the lightbulb inside the cupboard had fused, and Uncle Vernon had slammed the little shutters in the door shut before locking him in), but Harry couldn't sleep. He reached overhead for Alastair's silken abode and smiled as her spindly legs pattered down his fingers, into his palm.

"G'night, Alastair," Harry whispered. "Why are you still awake? I hope you had enough to eat today. I'll try to leave the door open in the morning. That way some bugs might make it inside. I know there haven't been many flies lately."

At that moment, sawdust cascaded from the ceiling and Alastair scuttled away into the darkness.

Harry sat up with a start just as the door flew open. A dark silhouette was standing in the hallway with a torch in hand, towering over Harry's bed.

"_Get up_," Vernon snarled through his teeth, reaching down to grasp Harry by the collar and tossing him to the opposite wall of the hallway.

Harry found a certain comfort in knowing that he hadn't _actually_ done anything wrong, that Vernon didn't need even a triviality to justify the motions of his fist. It had taken Harry a while to figure this out. Landing with a thud on the hardwood floor, he scrambled to his feet before Vernon could try to assist him.

"You – " Vernon pointed a pudgy finger at Harry's throat. "You – "

"I didn't do it," said Harry, taking a step back toward the kitchen. He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes – he wasn't sure how much Vernon could see with the torch aimed shakily at the ceiling.

"Of course you did, boy," Vernon spat. "Who else could it be… just like that wasteman father of yours… a ball of rubbish, you are. At least a crapstained scrap of underwear can be washed – but you are nothing but a parasite in my own house!"

Harry shook his head slowly. Creativity was not one of Uncle Vernon's strengths.

"Uncle Vernon," Harry said steadily, "It's past midnight. You have work tomorrow."

He could smell it now, the sickly sweet mist of Jack Daniel's wafting toward him. He needed to be extra careful.

"Are you disrespecting me?" Uncle Vernon leaned forward until his nose was inches from Harry's. "You know, I could make it a lot worse for you… withhold meals until your stomach rots from the inside… lock you back in the cupboard and tell your school you're ill with the flu… those revolting eyes of yours won't see daylight for another week…"

Harry's gut had wrung itself into a knot.

"Uncle Vernon, I don't know what you're talking about," he said slowly. "Why don't I make a kettle of tea, and then you can get some rest – "

"Don't play stupid with me, you nasty little worm. YOU know why our Dudley's been sniffling all night."

"Well, yes, actually," said Harry. "He and his friends tried to stuff my head down a toilet, but he got splashed with whatever was in there. He spat it right out, though."

There was a moment of stillness during which Harry knew, with a heavy feeling in his insides, that he had said too much.

With a roar, Vernon struck Harry on the side of the jaw with a hook punch that sent him sprawling onto the kitchen floor. Before he could stand, Vernon landed a kick to Harry's chest with the tip of his boot. Bile bubbled in Harry's throat, and he raised his arms to shield his face.

When Harry opened his eyes again, Vernon's shadow was standing over him with Petunia's broom in hand.

"It's Monday tomorrow, Uncle Vernon! I'm going to school! You don't want people to see!"

For a moment, it was as if Vernon had heard him; the man paused with his arm in midair, holding the broom like an axe, before he swung it down onto Harry's ribs.

"HOW – DARE – YOU – " Vernon panted after each strike, "THREATEN DUDDERS – AFTER ALL WE'VE DONE FOR YOU – YOU DISGUSTING SLUG – "

It was probably the wrong time to tell Vernon, Harry thought, that he hadn't touched Dudley at all. The toilet had regurgitated of its own accord and the wave of contents had caught Dudley in the face.

At long last, Vernon lowered the broom, kicked Harry's ribs one last time for good measure, and staggered back against the doorway, gasping for breath. Harry knew that any sudden movement on his part would only aggravate Vernon further, so he waited there on the linoleum floor, clutching his ribs.

The session seemed to end as abruptly as it had begun. Uncle Vernon leaned the broom against the wall, fumbled with the loose drawstrings of his pajamas, and started down the hallway to the staircase; Harry pulled himself up by the handle of the refrigerator door, and braced himself against the kitchen counter. He was still standing there minutes later, forehead pressed to the cool marble countertop, when he heard footsteps behind him again.

"Boy."

Harry rose slowly and looked over his shoulder with bleary eyes. Vernon stood behind Harry with long loops of extension cable dangling from his fingertips.

Uncle Vernon spoke again, this time in a whisper so low in tone that Harry might not have heard him if he hadn't seen the lips move in the light from the microwave clock. "Come with me, boy."

Something deep inside Harry's chest curdled as his eyes darted from the cable, to Vernon's dimly lit face, and up to the uninhabited lightbulb fixture on the ceiling. It occurred to Harry that if the racket happening downstairs had not yet woken up Aunt Petunia and Dudley, nothing would – or, at least, nothing would prompt them to roll out of their beds to investigate. Vernon was safe in his own liquor-fueled delirium, relishing privileges he didn't have by the light of day. Harry could imagine no worse feeling than to know, without a doubt, that he was alone. No one would be coming to rescue Harry from this nightmare – he was cornered into the space between the stove and the sink, it was two in the morning, and not a single neighbor remembered his name.

"A good butcher's beating," Uncle Vernon rasped, still breathing hard between each set of words, "will teach you to be grateful – for this roof – over your head – you insolent snake – "

"Leave me alone," said Harry.

The words escaped him before he could make up his mind. Uncle Vernon raised his eyebrows.

"_What's that, boy?"_

"Leave me alone," repeated Harry. He could feel his voice shaking. "Don't touch me – "

With a snarl, Uncle Vernon lunged forward with his fingers outstretched like claws toward Harry's neck. Harry ducked under Vernon's armpit and spun so that the two of them were face-to-face, but now with his own feet only inches away from the doorway that led to the living room, and directly to the front door

"_Never – touch – me – again." _Harry lifted the broom from the wall, pointed the handle toward Uncle Vernon's chest, and looked the man in the eye as he paused after each word. "_Stop hurting me!"_

In the semidarkness of Harry's vision, Harry thought he saw the cable draped around Uncle Vernon's elbow sliding of its own accord – the pronged end looping up to Vernon's shoulder, around the back of his neck, and into his gaping mouth. There was a high-pitched squeal, and then a yelp, and Uncle Vernon was hopping around the kitchen on one foot, spewing spittle onto all three walls, and swatting frantically at his own nose. He stumbled into the kitchen stove, and the evening's forgotten pot of canned spaghetti catapulted into his face before Vernon bolted into the hallway, soon followed by the sound of his footsteps thundering up the stairs and the click-clack of the extension cable dragging behind him.

Harry stood motionless for a time, staring at the dark puddle on the kitchen floor seeping underneath the vent of the refrigerator.

He _could_ leave. It was a daring, almost impossible thought, but he _could. _He could pack whatever hand-me-downs he had into his school bag and take off into the night. No one had cared about what had had happened tonight; no one would care if he vanished. He might as well as do it on his own terms.

But then again, where would he go? He looked back at the cupboard, only just visible in the hallway around the corner from where he stood. At least he had a mattress to sleep on. And Alastair – he had promised Alastair with help catching a decent meal. Alastair, at least, would know Harry was lost.

So it was that Harry staggered back to his cupboard, fumbled with the lock, and collapsed onto the ragged mattress. He last remembered Alastair's dainty feet brushing over his cheek before he drifted into a restless slumber.

A few hours later, as Harry lay awake in the darkness trying to find a comfortable position, he thought back to the previous morning, when Dudley's friend Piers had arrived at the front door and promptly punched Harry on the nose.

Through the stars in his vision, Harry had noticed the message printed into Piers' T-shirt:

_Parents for Sale_

_(Slightly Damaged)_

_Buy One, Get One Free!_

The sans serif typeface was seared into Harry's memory.

Is that what it's like? thought Harry, a surge of anger coursing through his face. To not be parentless? To have so many T-shirts that you have the choice to buy one that insults the provider of such clothing?

"I'll take that bargain any day," Harry muttered to the ceiling. A single tear ran down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away.


	2. Chapter 2: Sourdough Toast

Ginny came home from a mass casualty training simulation one evening to find Harry kneeling on the bathroom floor, retching into the toilet.

"Harry! You haven't been – "

Harry wiped his mouth with the crook of his elbow and smiled wryly. "I wish."

Ginny helped Harry to his feet and led him, still shivering, to the futon in the sitting room, where Norberta the cat watched them both with an air of feigned disinterest.

"Did something happen at work today?" asked Ginny.

"Well – kind of." Harry pressed the base of his palm against his forehead, willing the pounding in his brain to diffuse into his hand. "Er – "

"It actually happened a few days ago, didn't it?" said Ginny.

"Well – yeah. " Harry squinted at Ginny. "How did you know?"

"You're in a sort of trance at first and it starts to hit you after the shock has worn off," said Ginny. "I'm that way too."

Harry raked his fingers through his dandruff-ridden hair. His mouth opened and closed several times, but it was if his vocal cords were paralyzed.

"Hey. It's all right, Harry." Ginny grabbed a yowling Norberta by the tail, lifted her into Harry's lap, and held her in place as she wriggled. "It's okay to be affected by the terrible things humans do to each other. We chose to be Aurors so we could play a part in protecting those who are vulnerable. We might not be able to stop it, but we can try. That's what really matters, Harry."

Harry swallowed a dense globule of saliva and nodded at Ginny. He scratched behind Norberta's ears, and she purred.

Harry was twelve years old again, and sitting down at the Weasley table for breakfast. Actually, it was a post-breakfast, of sorts, because Mrs. Weasley had sent Ron and the twins to clean their rooms as atonement for borrowing the flying car yesterday. Harry, Ginny, and Percy remained in the combined dining and living room area; Percy had finished his eggs and was now poring over the Magical Government handbooks by the garden window, Ginny was chasing the cat around the armchair in an effort to retrieve her hand-knit floral jumper, and Harry was eating his fourth slice of sourdough toast at the dining table.

Mrs. Weasley emerged around the corner from the kitchen with a frying pan in hand. Harry jumped from his seat, then smiled when he saw the sizzling poached egg topped with molten cheese, which Mrs. Weasley tipped directly onto Harry's plate.

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry.

Mrs. Weasley stood by the table as Harry divided the egg in half with his knife and proceeded to cram the entire half into his mouth at once.

"You're awfully hungry today," said Mrs. Weasley.

"Mmm," said Harry, nodding. "Cheese."

Mrs. Weasley stayed motionless by the table, watching intently as Harry devoured the rest of the egg and scooped the crusted bits of oil with his fork onto the blunt end of his knife.

"I'll start another on the stove," she said, turning back toward the kitchen.

"Oh, Mrs. Weasley – "

"It's no trouble," said Mrs. Weasley briskly. "Just a crack of an egg here – and a sprinkle of cheddar there – and a spot of pepper over yonder. Simple." She covered the pan with the lid, whispered _Incendio_ at the stove, and strode back to the dining table with a tray of biscuits.

"Now, Harry dear," said Mrs. Weasley, taking a seat beside Harry, "Is it true what Ron said yesterday?"

"Mmm?" said Harry, licking a stray crumb from his bottom lip.

Mrs. Weasley lowered her voice. "About your aunt and uncle starving you, dear?"

Harry took another bite of the biscuit in his hand and chewed slowly. He knew Mrs. Weasley was still looking at him. Across the living room, Ginny was stroking the cat's tail more slowly than usual.

"Harry?" said Mrs. Weasley.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Not… really. No."

"What do you mean, Harry?"

Harry flinched in his seat.

_She knows,_ thought Harry. To his annoyance, his eyes were wet.

Mrs. Weasley reached under the table and squeezed Harry's hand. "Are you sure you're all right, Harry?"

Harry had to swallow before he could smile back at her. "They're not starving me, Mrs. Weasley. I'm just hungry this morning. And your cooking is delicious."

He didn't completely understand why he was lying to Mrs. Weasley. He just knew that he didn't want the furtive looks of sympathy that would ensue, as if he was an abandoned pet at the Magical Menagerie, or a wandless vagabond on Knockturn Alley.

It wasn't a big deal, anyway. The one thing Harry remembered from Muggle science class was starvation physiology. It wasn't possible to truly starve after only a week; you needed at least three or four.

The month leading up to Christmas vacation, Harry had a difficult time keeping his first-year class of Defense Against the Dark Arts students focused on the tasks at hand. For one thing, he himself was reeling from the number of pages he had yet to memorize from his Auror training notebook. He had split all the school's classes in half with his fellow D.A.D.A professor, Padma Patil, which meant he could work half-time at Hogwarts while finishing up his Auror training at the Ministry, but he still struggled to study after long afternoons of lesson planning. He felt hypocritical penalizing his students for unfinished homework when he hadn't turned in his own assignments for Nonverbal Defense in more than a week.

On one particularly fruitless Wednesday, Harry tried to teach the first-years _Rictusempra_, the Tickling Charm. He borrowed a dozen adolescent Blast-Ended Skrewts from Hagrid's garden for the occasion, and carried them up to his classroom in several flameproof crates. During the lesson, however, the vast majority of students soon grew tired of targeting the rear ends of Blast-Ended Skrewts, and began aiming their wands at their classmates' rear ends instead. Meanwhile, the Blast-Ended Skrewts scuttled around the classroom shooting sparks at each other. Harry alternated between shouting, "_Aguamenti, AGUAMENTI!"_ at incipient flames on the wooden floor and Disarming certain students who had learned to maintain a strong _Rictusempra_ charm for too long while their friends rolled underneath their chairs, giggling hysterically.

After all of the Skrewts were packed safely into their crates, Harry gathered his students at the front of the classroom to hand them their graded homework assignments. The pile of papers looked suspiciously sparse. Harry made a mental note to ask Madam Pomfrey about migraine-healing spells. Out of sheer desperation, he made a split-second decision to bargain with his students.

"Tomorrow," said Harry, wiping the sweat off his brow, "I will be ending class a half-hour early. Anyone who turns in today's homework can stay to face off with my Boggart afterward."

Sure enough, the next day, all of his first-years arrived with completed essays about Distracting-Type Hexes in hand. After his lecture, the students pushed their desks and chairs toward the back and stood in line to face the Boggart. No matter how many times Harry brought out the Boggart, he always looked forward to the occasion; the youngest students at Hogwarts, especially, tended to change their minds about their worst fears as time went on.

"_Riddikulus_!" said the first student in line, a Gryffindor girl named Jasmine. An oversized centipede, scuttling directly toward her, turned into a caterpillar that then morphed into an orange butterfly.

_Pop_! A plate of dried prunes transformed into a plate of chocolates.

_Poof!_ A snarling wolf into a tail-wagging puppy.

By now, Harry was less interested in the theatrics at the front of the line than he was by the students at the back who had yet to face the Boggart. Some of them were whispering to their friends, giggling nervously about things both Defense-related and not. ("My mum's baking a Bertie Bott's ice cream cake for Christmas!" captured Harry's interest.) Others flicked their wands and mouthed _Riddikulus_ silently to themselves.

One boy, however, stared straight ahead, off into space, as if he could see through the walls of the tower and over the hills that surrounded Hogwarts. A chill ran down Harry's spine as he watched the boy's eyes.

When it was the boy's turn, Harry considered saying something – some unnecessary tip about spell-casting, or a generic word of encouragement, perhaps – but the expression on the boy's face silenced him.

The door of the Boggart's closet opened, but what materialized in front of them was not a solid object. It was a vision of Hogwarts, shrinking in the distance as the rumbling of the train sounded from somewhere behind them.

"_Riddikulus,_" said the boy, very quietly. The image vanished from above them, replaced by a whiff of purple smoke.

The boy joined his classmates at the back of the hall, the next girl in line turned a stack of homework into a copy of _Beedle the Bard_, and then the bell rang. Harry called after the first-years, bellowing last-second announcements about tomorrow's Disarming lesson, all the while searching the crowd for one particular Hufflepuff hood.

"Finn, may I have a word? Finn!"

Harry ran toward the start of the spiral staircase, but by the time he reached the banister, Finn was gone.


	3. Author's Note

The story wasn't showing up on search engines under the new spell-checked title, so I've republished the story under the new title and will be posting further updates to that version. Please see my account homepage - thanks! :)


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